


though the world explode, these two survive

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is eccentric and Crowley secretly loves it, Ficlet, Gen, Historical References, Holding Hands, Sherlock Holmes's Birthday, tea-party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘You know,’ Crowley clears his throat, wonders how best to put this. ‘I do recall reading somewhere – not a book, mind,’ perish the thought, ‘that Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t want to be remembered just for Sherlock Holmes.’‘Yes, well, he’s not,’ Aziraphale replies, a touch defensively.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	though the world explode, these two survive

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at the start of the New Year, as the concept of Aziraphale insisting upon celebrating Sherlock Holmes' birthday was too delightful an opportunity to pass up. However, things happened that threw me off course, so it's only just been published now. Features cake, Crowley being Crowley and veiled criticism of the fourth series of BBC's Sherlock, as well as quotations and the title taken from - of course - Vincent Starrett's infamous '221B' poem.

* * *

‘January 6th is considered to be the official birthday of Sherlock Holmes by most fans worldwide,’ Aziraphale trills from atop the ladder, looking every inch the Dickens-esque supporting character – the slightly eccentric one with the wristwatch who charms his way into the hearts of the audience (Crowley only knows this because he watches films, shut up). ‘And therefore, it’s vital that we commemorate it.’

‘With cake.’ Crowley parses that as he’s handed the tablecloth that Aziraphale passes down, glancing sideways at the little table Aziraphale has already set up in the middle of the shop, complete with a vase of flowers in the middle. Crowley had brought him those flowers. ‘Alright, then.’ He can’t quite remember Aziraphale being so keen to celebrate a fictional character’s birthday before, but then time can do things to the memory, and besides, Christmas is over and they’re in a new year, entirely untouched by the threat of Armageddon. It’s good to have things to focus on.

And anyway, _cake._

He shifts the table-cloth in his arms to give Aziraphale a hand down from the ladder; the angel is a pro at and doesn’t actually need it, given that he has wings and all, but he just loves how conventional it looks to the aesthetic. Besides, it’s good for the miniscule stuff, like taking down the best tea-set from the top shelf – hidden from customer’s grubby hands – for the purpose of a birthday tea for somebody who was never actually real.

That, and they’re trying to ration their use of miracles as best they can. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to themselves; Heaven and Hell can leave them alone for a bit longer, ta.

‘You know,’ Crowley clears his throat, wonders how best to put this. ‘I do recall reading somewhere – _not_ a book, mind,’ perish the thought, ‘that Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t want to be remembered just for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Yes, well, he’s not,’ Aziraphale replies, a touch defensively. ‘His other works were extremely impressive as well; _The Lost World_ was particularly compelling.’

‘That, and the whole thing with Houdini,’ Crowley raises an eyebrow as Aziraphale grimaces.

‘Oh yes, that was terribly awkward. I spent a lot of nights drinking with Arthur after that happened…’

‘I did the same with old Houdie,’ Crowley leans against the bookshelf, folding his arms, reminiscent. ‘Really interesting guy.’ Shame, really, that the for of them never got to hang out together, while the going was good, but rather like clashing beliefs over the paranormal, one request for holy water and you don’t speak for the better part of eighty years, so.

‘But you know, angel,’ he adds, visibly hoisting himself up into the here and now, ‘you remember what he said. He literally did not care about Sherlock Holmes. He said to marry him, murder him, do whatever you like with him. Literally.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale mutters rather darkly, with the long-held resentment of a devoted reader who devotedly followed those first fantastic tales in the Strand (sobbing and sobbing when dear Holmes went over the falls with the dreadful Professor Moriarty and rejoicing with a week-long party years later when Arthur finally bowed to public pressure by reviving him). ‘Something some people rather took too much to heart on occasion.’ He doesn’t _mind_ television adaptations, certainly not of dear old Sir Arthur’s work and followed them with intrigue and growing delight throughout the 20th century and into the 21st, only for it to swiftly give way to sudden, blinding horror in the space of just a few scant years.

Crowley has the good grace (again) to look contrite. ‘I know, angel. Couple of temptations due at the BBC, and next thing you know, everybody’s having a drink and playing truth or dare. I never realised they’d taken my suggestion about the whole secret sister thing so seriously. Mind you, some of the other stuff they did…’ He grimaces and Aziraphale wrinkles his nose back, pained. _‘Definitely_ nothing to do with me.’

‘Not your fault, darling,’ Aziraphale comforts, patting his shoulder with one hand, snapping his fingers to pull up a couple of chairs, both of which tuck themselves in under the table in a rather intimate, date-like fashion. ‘Take a seat, dear. I think I might have some napkins in that drawer over there...’

When everything is arranged – the best china set out with steaming tea, plates and cutlery arranged just so – Aziraphale brings out a small chocolate-and-vanilla sponge (‘Oh, I get it, for the whole Doctor Watson-being-the-light-in-his-darkness thing. Nice one, angel,’) with a single, lit candle set in the middle and Crowley swallows down his startlement at seeing Aziraphale’s beaming face behind the small – so small, tiny, harmless, barely-there – flame and quickly hides it by pulling out the angel’s chair for him instead.

‘Oh, how lovely! Thankyou, darling,’ Aziraphale giggles, charmed and Crowley hides his own grin as he tucks the chair back in, resumes his place. _‘Haaaaaaaappy birthday to you…’_

 _‘Nooooo,’_ Crowley groans, immediately making shushing motions. ‘Sorry-not-sorry, angel, but I draw the line at _that.’_ Aziraphale huffs, mouth set in a thin line and blows out the candle with a flourish, quietly mutinous. ‘But – if you like,’ his lips hitch up, teasing, ‘I _could_ say grace?’

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale’s frown bends in the opposite direction; he immediately looks delighted all over again. ‘Well, that would be lovely, if you could – _is_ there a prayer for such a particular occasion?’ He peters off, visibly trying to think and Crowley smirks, takes both of the angel’s hands in his own, clutches them on the table.

 _‘Here dwell together still two men of note,’_ he recites, from perfect memory, _‘Who never lived,’_ he says it with the smallest, pointed smattering of sarcasm, gets a light whack on the hand for his troubles but continues, nevertheless, _‘and so can never die…’_

He never takes his eyes off Aziraphale’s face, or his hands from his own, as he performs the poem just for him, right there in his bookshop, over the single, smouldering candle. Ignores, with great effort, the sweetness of the smoke merging with the icing; the memory of an entirely different, heavier kind of smoke, the one that could rob the world – and you – of your best friend.

 _‘…And it is always 1895,’_ he concludes and Aziraphale drags his hands from his own, but only to clap for him.

‘Oh, darling. That was _delightful_ , thankyou.’ His cheeks, bursting like full apples, crinkle the corners of his beautiful blue eyes as he stares across the table at him in something close to besotted and Crowley shrugs back, folding his arms tightly, hiding himself back behind his glasses, mutters ‘S’alright,’ under his breath, paying particular attention to the Fortnum and Mason’s tablecloth.

‘Although,’ he remembers to add belatedly, looking back up into Aziraphale’s ridiculously happy expression, still fixed firmly upon him – and really, no wonder either of them ever quite fit in, with Aziraphale looking that happy? Like everything within a twenty-mile radius doesn’t immediately perk up when he’s particularly pleased about something? Like Crowley’s struck gold? ‘I didn’t read that in a book. I read that on the Internet and _that,’_ he adds an index finger for emphasis, just so Aziraphale doesn’t go doing anything stupid, like somehow thinking he’s wonderful – even if being thought of as wonderful by Aziraphale is the most wonderful thing there _is,_ ‘doesn’t count.’

He snatches up his cup, lets Aziraphale fill it with sweet, hot tea, already resigned to his fate of being considered… _however_ he’s considered, by the lovingly relentless angel in front of him and clinks it gently against Aziraphale’s, just to prevent inevitable praise that Aziraphale can never quite seem to help, that he sometimes thinks he would do anything to hear again.

‘Cheers. To the greatest detective who _never_ lived.’ He smiles all the same to take the sting out of it and Aziraphale looks moved, his face once again doing that whole thing it did at the Ritz some months ago, all lowered gaze and beaming lips, such as what comes with being titled as a bastard worth knowing.

‘Cheers, my darling,’ he says in return; reaches out once more to squeeze Crowley’s other hand, unfolded in the middle of the table. ‘Cake?’

‘Cake.’

*


End file.
